


Binding Magic

by Drag0nst0rm



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Crack, Gen, Humor, Magic Revealed, Merlin is Magic Itself, Unintended Consequences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 06:03:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12102363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: When you put magic restraining cuffs on Magic himself you get exactly what you asked for.Which is not necessarily the same thing as what you wanted.





	Binding Magic

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Merlin.

Merlin woke up to a pounding head and the always discouraging sound of bandits arguing.

“What are you waiting for, you idiots? Get the other one tied up too.”

The other one, Merlin realized fuzzily, must mean him as his arms were definitely free. Which meant the first one was . . . Arthur?

“Tied up with what?”

“With. Rope.” This time the “you idiots” was left off, but Merlin was pretty sure it was implied.

“There is no more rope!”

Ah. Merlin well remembered the panic of that phrase.

“Use the cuffs, then!”

Merlin frowned. He didn’t like the sound of cuffs. Maybe he could use magic to take the bandits out before it came to that. He cracked his eyes open.

Nope. Arthur was tied up just across from him, and he was very much awake. Merlin would just have to wait this out. It wasn’t like cuffs could hold him any better than rope, really.

“But those are supposed to be for sorcerers!”

“Yes,” the first voice said through gritted teeth, “but since we don’t have any of those, and since we were specifically hired to capture these two men, and since it’s not like the cuffs won’t hold someone without magic perfectly well, why don’t you go get the cuffs?”

“Oh.”

Merlin thought he probably ought to do something about all this, but Arthur was still _right there_ , and his head was fuzzy enough he didn’t dare count on his skills of diversion.

He was still blearily trying to sort the problem out when someone came up behind him and snapped on the cuffs.

That didn’t help the fuzzy feeling. In fact, Merlin realized with a blink as he looked down at himself, he was looking rather fuzzy too. And something felt rather funny in the air. Something missing.

But he still wasn’t thinking very well, so someone else could deal with the problem this time. And if no one did, he’d get around to it eventually.

Right after a little nap.

 

Some words were just too great to entrust to verbal speech, so when Mordred finally screwed up the courage to say what must be said, he did it telepathically as the druids had taught him so long ago. _Kara, I love you._

Kara said nothing. In fact, she didn’t even turn to look at him.

_Kara? Say something._

She didn’t even look at him.

Mordred waited hopefully for another few moments, but the bitter truth crashed down on him soon enough. Kara didn’t feel the same. She wouldn’t even give him the respect of saying so.

He’d been so happy to run into her again. Now - Now he could feel his cheeks heat with humiliation. He never wanted to see her again.

“Fine, then,” he choked out. He turned around and walked hastily away.

 

Kara turned around, puzzled, when Mordred stormed off. 

_Mordred? Mordred! What’s going on?_

He didn’t look back once.

 

Morgana was thrilled. At long last, she had received word that her hateful brother and his idiotic manservant were captured. Now all she had to do was teleport to where the bandits were, and she would have her revenge.

She situated her cloak and raised her arms for an appropriately dramatic effect before saying the spell.

Nothing happened.

She tried it again. Louder, this time.

Nothing happened. 

She shouted the spell.

Nothing happened.

She let out a scream of rage and tried to release a wave of force to let out her frustrations against the trees.

Nothing happened.

Just like - Just like when - 

“Emrys,” she - Not yelped. High priestesses didn’t yelp. She - exclaimed. In an appropriately fearsome manner.

If Emrys was working against her again - if he was that close - 

She retreated swiftly through the trees.

And no, that was not a kind way of saying “scrambled madly like a rabbit chased by wolves,” thank you very much.

 

Look, Gwaine wasn’t saying he had an enchanted sword. He was just saying that he’d bought it off an old man who specialized in, ah, unorthodox goods, and that there was a reason that despite numerous bar brawls, gambling enterprises, and unexpected confiscations, he still had the _same_ sword.

Or, rather, he wasn’t saying that because this was Camelot and the princess would get his armor in a twist. Besides. The other knights might be jealous.

Since the sword’s only magical property was to always return to him sooner or later, Gwaine didn’t feel bad about using it in practice against the other knights. So as Percival approached, Gwaine drew it with a grin. “Ready, mate?”

“Ready,” Percival started to say.

Started, because there was a strange pop, and then Gwaine’s sword, his wonderful, fabulous sword, was no longer in the guard position in front of him.

Instead, he was holding a small feather that swayed slightly in the breeze.

Gwaine stared at it. He reached out his other hand and poked it.

Still a feather. Or, more accurately, a quill. A quill pen.

The pen might be mightier than the sword, but Gwaine would really rather have something better to go up against Percival’s muscles.

He looked up at Percival with a rueful smile, a quick explanation bubbling up in him. He wasn’t sure what the explanation was yet, so he was quite eager to open his mouth and find out.

Except Percival’s face wasn’t where he’d thought it would be. 

A small voice came from somewhere rather closer to the ground. “Um.”

Gwaine looked down.

There, at a height that was only maybe, possibly, generously five feet, was a stick of a man with no muscles to speak of that was practically drowning in chain mail.

Gwaine blinked. “Percival?”

The man’s face turned bright red. “Yes?”

Gwaine looked around at the confused knights that were just beginning to realize what was going on. Some of them, he noticed, were having similar troubles, ranging from suddenly broken armor to a knight who’s helmet had presumably turned into a chicken, as he now had one sitting on his head.

“ . . . Let’s get you to Gaius before there’s a stampede,” Gwaine decided. He shoved the pen into his belt.

“Right,” Percival said firmly. He took a step towards the castle.

And promptly fell over the chain mail.

Gwaine looked down at his fallen friend, picked him up, and ran.

 

Kilgharrah noticed immediately when the magic went out from the world. Most enchantments would come undone immediately, he knew; his own innate magic would take longer to drain.

In the meantime, the lack was expressing itself as a dreadful cold.

There was only one possible cause to such a catastrophe. 

Kilgharrah launched himself into the air and took off in the direction of the young warlock.

Unfortunately, by the time he reached him, the magic was already leaving his wings. His landing was more of a crash than anything, but it was still more than enough to awe the pathetic camp of bandits.

Kilgharrah waddled forward. He glared particularly fiercely at the bandits to make up for the slight lack of grandeur. 

“Release the young warlock,” he growled. His cold added a nice roughness to the roar. “Now.”

Even a rather ill dragon was impressive enough to the bandits scurrying to do what he ordered, he was pleased to note. He peered at them closely just to be sure they really were doing as he said and not double crossing them. Between his failing eyesight and the watering eyes his illness had brought about, it was rather hard to see clearly.

The young warlock was yelping about something, but Kilgharrah couldn’t understand it through the gag. He was probably urging them to hurry. He did look rather wispy under those cuffs.

The manacles finally fell off. Kilgharrah straightened up. Already he could feel new magic flooding through him.

The young dragonlord tore the gag off. He was not, however, looking at Kilgharrah. Or the bandits.

Instead, he was looking at another young man who had been tied up a few yards away and who had quite escaped Kilgharrah’s notice.

Now that his eyes were clearing up, he rather thought it might be . . . 

Ah, yes. The young king.

That was . . . Unfortunate.

He puffed his chest out and put the best spin on it he could. “The time has come for you to reveal yourself, young warlock. If destiny is to come to pass, the time must be now.” There. That sounded good.

Merlin’s jaw dropped. “Just last week you were all but ordering me not to tell him!”

He’d been hoping the young warlock would have been hit on the head enough in the interim to forget that. “Last week the time was not yet ripe. Now the time for Albion to come to pass is at hand.”

The young king had also been gagged. He was making some interesting noises through it. Merlin’s eyes flickered guiltily to him. “Right, Arthur, I can explain - “ As he spoke, his eyes flashed, and the ropes and gag fell off.

Personally, Kilgharrah would have waited until the explanations were through with, but that was the young warlock’s decision. In the meantime, seeing as Arthur had just been handed his sword by an apologetic bandit - 

“This part of your destiny you must accomplish alone, young warlock,” he announced. He tested his wings. He thought he had enough magic regained to fly away. “I take my leave of you.”

“Now wait just a minute - “ The king began.

Kilgharrah flapped his wings and took off.

And promptly crashed back down. It seemed he was not quite ready after all.

He turned and began to walk regally away as if he had always meant to do that.

Merlin’s jaw snapped shut. “Come back here, you great scaly coward! You got me into this mess, you're not leaving me in it. Drakon - “

For one hopeful moment, Kilgharrah thought perhaps he could hum loudly enough to drown out the dragonlord’s command.

Unfortunately not.

**Author's Note:**

> So poor Percival's got either some sort of Captain America or Hulk thing going on, and Gwaine got a sword from a man with a rather odd sense of humor . . . or that might possibly be Riptide.
> 
> This is based off an old headcanon of mine:
> 
> One time, a couple of sorcerers managed to get a pair of magic restraining cuffs on Merlin. His magic was duly restrained.
> 
> So was the sorcerers', the hedge witches', the druids', the griffins' . . .
> 
> When an extremely irate Kilgharrah showed up, sniffling like he had a head cold, they had been only too happy to take the cuffs off. Everything got back to normal.
> 
> Word got out. No one tried that again.
> 
> I decided I wanted actual fic of it, and here we are, with a few alterations.


End file.
